Page 32 of Billionaire's Coastal Haven

We’re trapped.

Landon

Zoe shakes uncontrollably in the passenger seat, clutching the seat belt to her chest. Her lips are an unhealthy blue. She needs warmth immediately.

I drive over the planter beds and park at the base of the front steps. I am demolishing the landscaping anyway and I’d rather not carry Zoe through the rain. The house should be enough protection until we can call for a rescue.

I round the hood of the car and open Zoe’s door. I reach around her and unfasten her belt, then slide my arm behind her shoulders.

She places her hand on my chest. “I can walk.” She stutters the words around her shivering chin.

“I’ll help.” I extend my hand.

She glances at it like she’s not sure if I’m genuine. Her eyes search my face, travel down my soggy suit, then back up to my tousled hair.

She nods and takes my hand. Swinging her boots out of the car, we walk to the front door with my arm wrapped around her shoulders for warmth.

Zoe walks straight into the living room, like she knows my plan without me having to tell her.

“We need to find something to burn.” She gestures to the cold fireplace and strips her jacket from her arms.

It was seventy degrees earlier, but the storm has plummeted the temperature. I can’t see my breath in the air, but goosebumps ripple across her bare arms. Hypothermia is a real threat, and I doubt snuggling with me for warmth is on her mayoral to do list.

“I’ll find wood. You want to see if you can find blankets?” I shuck my jacket, sweep cobwebs from a broken light fixture, and hang it, then repeat the process with Zoe’s jacket. If we can’t find blankets to keep us warm, we will need them to dry quickly.

Zoe rubs her arms as she walks up the stairs to the second floor of the south wing where the rest of the bedrooms are housed. We haven’t inspected every nook and cranny yet. I guess this is our opportunity.

I head for the kitchen. The squatters who lived here several months ago used it as their main dwelling. Collin’s guys left a cooler filled with plastic water bottles and a few bags of potato chips, but they haven’t started renovations on this half of the house yet.

The kitchen is comfortably sized for a house that held its fair share of luxurious parties. Eighteen feet by twenty-four feet with ten-foot ceilings, according to the sale disclosures. Two giant enamel stoves with a total of eight gas burners dominate one wall. The faded nickel knobs are missing from two slots. In the corner of the breakfast nook, a black iron woodburning stove sits like a crotchety old man. Whitewashed cabinets are more a faded grey where the doors haven’t fallen from their hinges. If I can’t find wood anywhere else, we might be sacrificing the rest of the cabinetry for our survival.

Broken dishes, burnt candles, and a rusted cast iron pan are all that’s left in the cabinets. There’s nothing in the pantry that can help us either. Behind the potbelly stove, a torn leather bag holds a few pieces of kindling and matches.

I grab the matches, kindling, and three of the most rotten cabinet doors and make my way back to the living room.

Zoe hasn’t returned. I hope that means she’s found something and hasn’t fallen through a hole in the upstairs hardwood floors.

My opinions about the mayor are shifting with every interaction we have. The day we met, she seemed fake and manipulative. In my hotel room, she was condescending, if cute. Today, I want nothing more than to keep her safe and warm until we can get out of here.

I slip my phone from my pocket. Probably should have done that as soon as we stepped in the door, but Zoe’s warmth was my immediate concern, not our rescue.

I press the power button, but nothing happens. It’s waterlogged. I place it on the mantle and stare at the cold grate.

I’ve never started a fire before, but I’ve watched Bear Grylls a time or two during a transatlantic flight, so I guess at placing the splintered cabinetry and kindling in the fireplace grate.

The match lights on the first strike, and I hold it to the kindling. The flames lick the wood, and soon the cabinets are burning brightly.

Smoke billows from the wood, and I cough. Is the vent open in the flue? Did they make fireplace vents that closed in the 1920s? I have no idea.

“What are you doing?” Zoe yells.

“I started a fire.” I scrub my hands on my dress pants and beam.

She shoves me out of the way and dumps a water bottle over the flames, extinguishing them with a bitter hiss.

“What…wait, why…? We’re going to freeze to death now.”

She runs to the windows and tugs on the casing, but the window won’t rise. “Those cabinets are covered in lead-based paint. If we inhale it, we’ll asphyxiate before we have a chance to freeze. Help me with the window.”